Laid
by Fyndabhair
Summary: Harley and the Joker endure a long, hot havoc filled summer in Gotham.
1. Chapter 1

My therapist said not to see you no more, she says you're like a disease without any cure...

Faint echoes of a song Harley vaguely remembers, associates with the blur and heat of summers long gone by, and giggles. Sprawled across someone's overstuffed tacky couch wearing someone's pajamas, hers maybe, now anyways. It's hot, sweltering, not like summer more like fire, burning and curling everything. He's gone but he'll come back he didn't leave a note, no message but the ones carved into her skin, etched deep into her psyche. There is no such thing as abandoned, Harley knows. It's all part of the plan, everything at once purposeless and purposeful, she's part of the plan, he's part of the plan, the people who lived here were part of the plan.

The TV glows and chatters, idly she throws a slipper at it, discontented, imagining its glow contributes to the oppressive heat of the day, so strange for Gotham City. A goofy grin crosses her face, imagining what her man thinks of this uncharacteristic weather, imagines him giggling at the city acting contrary to nature, boiling them all like lobsters in a pot. The loopy lovey grin on her face fades as she remembers he hates extremes and caprice in the weather, the only time he's frustrated by chaos. His makeup, his clothing, none of it is suited to the heat and OH, he won't be happy to come home (if he remembers where home is) to the sticky heat in the house. Galvanized by this thought, Harley flies off the couch and darts upstairs, rummaging wildly through the closets for anything suitable to this heat, horrible and close like the suits she used to wear.

Black shorts and an ugly red paisley mens' shirt are the best she can find, losing interest halfway through her search, more focused on making her puddin' comfortable when he comes back. Ripping the sleeves from the shirt she ties it up, feels sweat bead on her exposed midriff as she skips down the stairs.

He's gone to the wrong house twice already, irrationally angry to find them empty, or occupied by people who aren't Harley and who certainly weren't prepared to greet him with a cool glass of something and giggle like a schoolgirl on laughing gas at how his day (days?) went. Leaving destruction in his wake- smashed glass, smashed bodies, bloody blond hair so familiar only in wrong ways.

The heat beats down on him, pulses with his heartbeat (busie old foole, unruly sunne!) greasepaint and blood drip in his eyes, in his mouth, drools down the corner of his lips when he tries to spit and remembers too late that he can't anymore, all the can'ts circle in his brain like vultures, savages dancing to the rhythm of sun and heartbeat, so unholy his teeth grit and the awful itch starts up fiercer than before, (Can't spit, can't kiss, can't chew properly, slow like a baby helpless, weak, fucking sun, houses and stupid yappy dogs, hate those, blond women who aren't Harley or maybe are Harley just Harley if they'd never met, 2.5 kids, nice house cold dumb life, where the fuck is she?) The prospect of multiple Harleys confuses him, how's he supposed to find the right one?

His tongue darts out, probes at his scars, tasting air like he can find her the way snakes do. There's a house on the corner (last house on the left) that looks familiar but he stops on the doorstep, sun finally setting, red blood glow on everything and a small worried voice- its in his head, he realizes, a soft quiet worry about what will happen if its another Not-Harley.

The thought's a chill, brings him back to himself. What does it matter to him if its another Stepford wife rather than Harley? Who cares? No one cares, least of all him, and to prove it he flings the door open violently, it crashes into the ugly rose painted mirror and swings back at him before he shoulders his way through. It's cold, beautifully cold, he licks his lips, flexes his hands as if to caress the air. There's a whirring in the air, quiet humming of a human kind over top, slightly off tune punctuated by words. Whoever's in this house is cool and happy, cooing over a blender, maybe waiting for soemone to come home. He wonders if the person they're expecting is him, if he'll turn the corner and find her there ready to pay attention to him like she should have been doing two houses ago.

Around the corner quietly, knife in hand in case it isn't Harley or in case it is Harley, he's not sure. He'll figure it out when he gets there, play it by ear. Whoever it is hasn't noticed him yet, he notices that she's wearing possibly the most hideous shirt he's ever seen in an ugly, meaty shade of red, and paisley to boot. Drooping platinum pigtails, the whirr of the blender, she turns around and grins. A look of absolutely exquisite pleasure crosses her face, clean of greasepaint but still his Harley.

"Hiya puddin'! How was your day?" She turns around to pull a glass off the counter, filling it with strawberry pink slush and plopping an absurdly twisty straw into the concoction. "Have a drink!"

She flutters around him and soon enough he's sitting on the counter with his shirtsleeves rolled up, sipping at the sweet drink, simmering anger still but so cool and relaxed. Harley's zipping around the house and its so much fun to watch other people work harder than yourself. He almost can't remember why he's angry until she brings him a cool washcloth "For the greasepaint, s'everywhere, puddin'!" Cool water runs down his arm, and he dumps the icy drink on her head, hopping off the counter to backhand her into the kitchen table. He wouldn't be a mess if she'd been where he left her, he'd had to go searching for her and now look! A dripping, melty mess was his reward! She whimpers something, an apology or a protest, but the luminous blue eyes stare up at him in confusion. He can see it, the "But puddin'!" waiting to whine out from her bloodied lips (annoying, he hadn't hit her hard, she was doing it to bother him) before she slumps, stands, and spits blood in the sink, melting pink whatever it was making sticky pink tracks down her face and neck, dripping from her pigtails and disappearing down her shirt.

Sudden revulsion wracks his body and he nearly heaves. All the sweat and blood and grime and paint coating him, seeping into his skin and clothes, leaching in through the scars on his face. Hyper aware of all the dirt, another flash of panic, the memory of infection and pus, white hot disgusting pain. He licks his lips, tastes the weird fruity wax red lipstick and calms down, leaves Harley licking a finger and rubbing at a sticky spot on her nose.

Cold water, hot water, lukewarm, back to scalding hot, rinsing it all off, everywhere smelling of weird green soap, soap the mint green of Arkham's walls, candy bright shampoo and conditioner smeared on the tiled wall, a rainbow of colours smelling chemically floral. Fake fruit like in old ladies' homes, bowls of wax fruit dusty and age bleached that he wasn't supposed to touch, surreal and subtly wrong. He shakes his head, water flying and swears at Harley. He's pretty sure that weird thought was her fault, her and that pink fake fruit drink and the faint fruity smell of her hair even before he added the drink to it.

(First real Joker/Harley fic, it's a bit of a mishmash of TAS Joker and Dark Knight Joker, con-crit always always appreciated!)


	2. Chapter 2

There's towels, and his clothes all sweat stained and bloody on the floor. Nudging them both with a toe he grimaces and leaves the bathroom in search of clothing and Harley, so she can do some laundry. He's clean, unfortunately denuded of his makeup but he's clean and cool, that's what's important. If only he could find Harley (maybe a bell would work, he'd have to tell her to sew bells on her costume, or maybe get her a collar)

Harley hears him whistling from the kitchen, once the shower's stopped, and hunts through the cupboards for dinner tonight. Her good mood rockets upwards at the sound of whatever he's whistling. She knew he'd be put out by the bad weather but everything is alright again, right down to his shriek of "HARLEY!!" and the soft thump of clothes hitting her face, his smell, blood and sweat mixed in, more familiar to her than her own face.

Outrageous what some people consider clothing, he understands why Harley picked the red paisley monstrosity. It was by FAR the most tasteful shirt in the closet. Lost temporarily in a day dream involving colourblind clowns and colour coded traps, he sneezes. Oh. It's cold, his skin is all over goosebumps, cold water dripping from the ends of his hair.

Ick.

Dampness is unpleasant, but so are his options. Sighing, he drags his fingers through his hair (more dye, he's starting to look silly) and contemplates making Harley find him clothes. Hell, why not? He feels uncomfortable and shouldn't Harley be the one fixing that?

"HARLEEEEY!" Footsteps rocket up the stairs, both her pigtails dripping with clean water, her shirt undone and coming untied, she looks rather...damp (Not the only one who's cold) Another weird thought. He puts it down to the weather. She stares, starry eyed and he frowns, before another shiver reminds him why he called her. "Find me something, Harl. Decent, puh-lease!" he drawls the last word out and shuffles over to collapse on the bed.

Ho-ly. Harley's brain freezes for a moment, barely processing what her Mister J wants, gaping dumbly. After all its not every day a girl sees the love of her life standing in the bedroom glistening with water, not a towel in sight...

A book clips her shoulder, and he sees her snap out of her daze. He can't figure out what the hell happened to her, did her brain melt? His hair is making a wet spot on the pillow, he grumbles and tosses that at her too. She makes an adorable (what?) squeak, and a pigtail shakes loose.

"On my way, Mistah Jay!" She chirps, heading towards the cupboards, and he chuckles at the way she flings things around the room.

Somewhere something beeps, long and irritating (did he leave a bomb lying around?), Harley emerges from the closet panic-eyed, black pants with a faint grey check and an emerald green shirt that makes him think of the fifties land on the bed as she hurtles downstairs, leaving him to be blown up by whatever the fuck he did.

Harley's happy noises are audible from the bed (crazy broad) and slowly a delicious smell distracts him from downstairs while he debates with himself the relative hilarity of being discovered blown to kingdom come in his birthday suit or in someone else's clothes.

Clearly rather than meeting his maker, he's expected to meet Harley for food. Part of his earlier debate resurfaces- dress for dinner? Glaring unhappily at the clothes (that shirt is GREEN and, he supposes, polyester) he weighs the merits of naked dinner.

Oh. Cold. Right.

Resigning himself to his cruel fate, he picks up the pants and drops them like a housewife dropping something distasteful into the bin. He won't wear some other man's underwear (he's not a barbarian) but can't bring himself to wear some dead guy's pants without underwear. It's a bit of a pickle (bit more than a pickle, he snorts and rubs at his scars) Catch 22 and all that. To wear pants or not to wear pants (he is the man in this arrangement, after all. Maybe Harl can find him a pipe too).

Harley has found an apron in the kitchen, with a pattern of eyeblinding plaid in baby pink and assorted putrid pastels, with a frill of white lace trim around the edges. Must've belonged to a little girl, since it barely covers Harley's stomach and is, as far as he can tell, something only a little girl would love. Brandishing a pan of something that smells fabulous (better than other attempts, it actually looks like it's edible) she smiles coyly and shoos him out of the kitchen, grinning like a demented June Cleaver.

"Out you go, puddin'! Dinner's almost done!"

He's peering into the pan, and sniffs. Meatloaf again? He considers telling her he already had it for lunch, but can't remember if he actually ate lunch. What was he doing at lunch anyways? Right. The salami. Giggling, he swats at Harley and pecks her cheek on the way to the living room, enjoying the illusion of the nuclear family.

Harley bustles around the kitchen, setting the table with mismatched cutlery and anything pretty that catches her fancy, silver candlesticks with Halloween and Christmas candles, plates decorated with swirling abstract designs in clashing colours. It all comes together in a kind of unified discord she finds appropriate. With a woosh, the blowtorch lights and melts half the candles away, and she lovingly places the serving dish in front of the place of honor. Picks it up and moves it towards the middle. Pouts and twirls a pigtail as she realizes there's no dessert. Skidding to the freezer, she finds ice cream in a rainbow of colours and (allegedly) flavours. Perfect! Heaving a sigh, she declares dinner perfect and puts the meatloaf back in front of the place she's set for her puddin'.

Cartoon children and villains spout Beatles lyrics on the television, the colours flicker over his face, cast a bright glow on his face for once clear of makeup though he's forgotten that he isn't wearing any. Tongue flickering in a (parody?) of lewdness over his scars, fingers twisting in his hair as he tries to see how many references he can catch, occasionally yanking on his hair as the cartoon makes him giggle. Performance criminals? HAH! He isn't wearing makeup though, and he's wearing someone else's pants, and there's no way the cartoon will distract him for long, keep the twisting frenetic energy enthralled long enough for Harley, long enough for Gotham City to feel comfortable. Harley calls him for dinner, and he stares at the screen as the little kidlets save the day once again before heaving himself off the couch. He's feeling the prickle again, pins and needles through his entire body, in his mind, electric and slowly building.

"Meatloaf again? But I already had it for lunch!"

Harley's face falls, and he sits down to dinner.

Alright guys, whoever's reading this I'm sorry I totally screwed up and deleted a review on the previous chapter (I fail at this whole internet thing) and instead of fixing the problem here, fixed it on my computer copy, uploaded that, and replaced the chapter. Because I'm a dope. So my dear Agent Blank .E I love you for the review, and I fixed the spelling screw up, if you see any more errors lemme know!

As always, con-crit welcomed with open arms and explosive bouquets.


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